Prophecy Of Kings: Volume 1 ✔️

Chapter 7 - The Eve of War

Present-day...

As a new day dawned, five riders could be seen by the night watchmen as they crossed the outer drawbridge at Carlsyle Castle. Four Knight's clad in silver steel plate, and another outfitted from his sabaton to his sallet in golden armour. Athelstan and his retinue had returned from their successful journey to Siorrachd Rosbroig, home of Clan Kerr. Fanfare echoed from the outer ward tower and into the dying darkness; alerting those inside to the Kings return and disturbing the sleep of the ominous crows that perched like gargoyles on the battlement above.

Firmin lifted his weary head, observing the murder of crows that had taken flight. His horse cantered towards the lowered drawbridge, as illuminated shadows gathered on the other side. It was the Lord and his entourage; surely displeased by the sudden awakening at such a despicable hour.

Aldus Stephenson knelt on one knee to honour the arrival of the King as he dismounted his horse. The Lord's eyes looked heavy with sleep and his robes disheveled as he spoke at the feet of his ruler. "My King, I hope your journey to Cessford has proved fruitful," he said, holding a clasped hand to his chest.

"Indeed Aldus. Ready the entourage, I will be departing for Gloucester Palace immediately." Athelstan gestured to the Lord to stand up. "I will return in two weeks with reinforcements. Have half of your men ready for war... we will be marching to Kinloch."

"Yes my Liege," said Aldus bowing his head slightly.

The King looked over his shoulder to his guards, "Firmin, stay here at Carlsyle and ensure the preparations are in order for my return."

Aldus shot Firmin an unwelcome look as they left to fulfil Athelstan's requests.

Firmin had only one thing on his mind since he had left Carlsyle Castle. He wearily trod towards his bed-chamber; his armour hadn't been removed in over a day, weighing heavily on his injured shoulder. Usually, this would have been at the forefront of his mind, but the warmth of Barabel's embrace still consumed his thoughts.

His room was empty when he arrived, say, for the two small beds in each of the corners, the dresser, and the stool Barabel had used to sit on previously. He removed each piece of armour laboriously, thumping it down on one of the beds. I'll have to get that fixed, he thought to himself, looking at the vicious holes in the pauldron where the bear had taken hold. I wish I had taken a squire with me... If they weren't all so bloody hopeless. He flopped down on the bed, asleep, before his head had hit the pillow.

*****

"Huh?" Firmin shot into motion as a loud noise snatched him from his slumber. The veil of dreams was suddenly lifted, leaving a hazy grog that hung heavily over his head and stung his eyes. He heard a light knocking on the outside of his door.

Without waiting for a reply, the door opened slightly. "It's just me," whispered a familiar, gentle voice.
As though the harbinger of spring herself, the pleasant scent of rose petals filled Firmin's lungs and washed away his overbearing fatigue. The crisp morning breeze danced through Barabel's golden hair and flowing white uniform as she timidly entered the room.

I must be dreaming? Am I being visited by an angel?

"Good morning Firmin," Barabel said with an infectious smile, tying her hair back behind her head. "I hope ye slept... oh." She caught a glimpse of Firmin's exhausted features. "Well eh... how to put this politely... ye look like shite!"